Between the Devil and the Deep Blue Sea
by Quill9
Summary: Psychologists at Arkham have notoriously short shelf lives- and when one is moonlighting as a crimefighter, that short shelf life grows even shorter. Chapter 6 now up! Reviews appreciated.
1. Knight Job

Day 1:

At last, my plan's petals start to unfurl into sweet fruition. Oh, lord, I must sound like Poison Ivy- then again, I might not. Well, I'll guess I'll find out tomorrow- my first day at Arkham. I estimate about three years before I've gathered enough material to write my stunning memoirs.

What about Harleen Quinzell- or should I say Harley Quinn? "Looking into the abyss" and "He who fights monsters" and all that. What guarantee do I have that three years in Arkham won't corrupt me just as it did the Joker's henchwench? Well, I'll tell you: I plan to get a second perspective on my subjects- behind a crimefighter's gloved fist. I figure that seeing what my patients are really like will 'immunize' me, so to speak, from the sympathetic slide that characterized Quinn's fall from grace - and just think what a story it would make?

More to come in following chapters, Journal. I must get as much sleep as I can- I'm certainly going to need it for this ordeal. Some might call my plan insane- dangerously so. I say the best genius is always tinged with a hint of madness. Looks like I'll fit right in at Arkham, eh? Pleasant dreams, Journal- and who knows how may I'm going to get in the following days?

Day 2:

I got ready for my first day at Arkham with barely suppressed excitement. As I absent-mindedly drove up the long, winding drive after it' wrought-iron gates, I could almost hear the sound of maniacal laughter. Wait, that was maniacal laughter!

I heard a sudden thump, and looked up just in time to hear a thump, and see a straitjacketed, green haired, pasty faced inmate, go flying over my windshield- Funny, that looked just like the Joker. Wait, that was the Joker! In my rear-view mirror I could see him, now pinned down by guards, feebly shaking his fist at my retreating vehicle. Slightly shocked, I kept driving until I reached the parking lot. once there, I let out a low moan and leaned my head against the steering wheel.

If every day at Arkham was like this, I thought ruefully, I'd be straitjacketed in no time. I stepped in the front door, and asked the pretty if careworn secretary for Director Arkham. A security guard stepped forward, pulling out a metal-detection wand.

"What are you doing? Don't you trust your staff?"

"After the last six incidents- no. And that's just this year." The guard nodded to the secretary, and I was passed through to Doctor Arkham's office.

"Welcome, Doctor." Arkham greeted me as I entered his room " Please. have a seat. Cigar?"

"Sorry, I don't smoke." I said, taking a seat opposite him.

"Don't worry, after a few weeks of this,": He gesticulated at the surrounding walls "You will. By the way, excellent initiative with apprehending the Joker. If we had more staff like you, we'd have no use for orderlies."

"I see you don't have much practical experience with abnormal psychologies, so we decided to start you off small. However, the potential for career advancement here is great- we just can't seem to keep anybody. Anyway, Christine out front has your files. Ask one of the other doctors if you have any other questions. Have a nice day."

As I suited up for the night's activities, I reflected on the day's events. Arkham had set me up with a fairly run-of-the-mill array of psychopaths- no 'superstars'. I guess they don't want anybody just running into arkham for a true confessional story and then running right out again. Well, I have time.

As I finally strapped on my last vambrace, I caught a glance at myself in the mirror. Full plate isn't exactly the most acrobatic armor-especially full plate proofed to withstand bullets. But I wasn't worried about that. I checked my left arm for the most essential part of my superheroics- a small vial of pills. A friend at Ivy Town U was doing graduate research on a scientist named Tyler's early work and he came up with a chemical that boosts speed, strength and stamina for about half an hour per pill- precisely what you need to go tooling around gotham in 60 pounds of armor. Bring on the supervillains!

I stepped out onto my fire escape, and blessed the fact that I lived on a low floor. Although popping a pill would allow me to leap down easily, I have only a limited supply, so every minute counts.

My first crimebust came only a few minutes later. Some teenagers though that it would be a good idea to make an ATM withdrawal with a crowbar. They had just succeeded in shattering the screen when I intervened.

"Step away from the machine." I said, stepping out of the shadows(Which they seem to have a surplus of in Gotham), and casually tossing a pill into my mouth (my helmet has a swinging visor). Immediately, I felt the blood start to rush in my veins, and flexed my gloved fingers (I can't exactly go around hitting people with gauntlets, now, can I").

"Aw look, Lancelot's come to save the day. Where's Excalibur?" One of the young thieves smirked.

_Arthur's the one with the sword, punk_, but I responded only with another "Get away from the ATM." (My banter needs work.)

"Just trash him, Jackie!" His pierced and tatooed girlfriend called out.

"With pleasure, babe!" he smirked, and swung his crowbar in a wide arc. The only thing more satisfying than the look on his face when I caught his crowbar (did I mention the pills also enhance reflexes?) was the loud thump as my fist connected with his jaw. (No gauntlets, but a couple ounces of lead never hurt.) He hit the floor like a sack of potatoes.

"One down. Four to go." The rest of the gang took off running. I withdrew a handy roll of duct tape(man's best friend) and a cell phone. A call to the police and a binding later, and I was on my way.

Now this crimefighting business might seem a little bit easy to you, Journal. but you have to realize the situation- super-strength and full plate versus a bunch of teens. I'm sure the first time I go up against Clayface or the like, things will be a bit more difficult.

Two more attempted robberies, one attempted mugging, and one attempted rape later, I'm back here writing. The police scanner seemed awfully quiet tonight- but then it would, being on the wrong channel. Oh well- to make an omelet, must one not break a few heads? And besides, it actually felt a little bit good to be out there "making a difference.". Not as good as sleep would, though- luckily, my friend's "miracle drug" takes the edge off of sleep deprivation. Nevertheless, I must be going to bed now, Journal. Another day beckons- actually it already has. Goodnight

-Lancelot?(I really must get a codename) 


	2. First Contact

Day 4:

You know, Journal, I've been thinking about this whole super-heroics business I mean, where's the motivation for the whole cape-and-tights industry? All rewards are given to charity, and all prestige is left behind in the suit- could they all be going out there solely in pursuit of justice? Seems hard to believe-but then again, my judgment is probably colored by my... current situation. Anyhow, things are finally beginning to fall into place.

Work was fairly uneventful today, except for two incidents. Doctor Arkham called me into his office today and revealed that "I'm about ready to let you start work on some of our more... challenging cases. Just keep up the good work for a few more days, alright?" The fact that this announcement was prefaced by a coworker's revelation that two more psychologists had quit only slightly dampened my enthusiasm. Maybe I won't even need three years to write my memoirs.

On a slightly more alarming note, another of my coworkers, an attractive girl named Jennifer (who I have considered asking out- an idea I was unfortunately forced to scrap due to my "night life") revealed that the Joker was "going to 'get', in his own words, 'the miserable miscreant mindless enough to mutilate me'. Luckily, he doesn't actually know who you are, but I would keep one eye open." Both eyes, I would think- that man is reputed to be nuttier than a jar of extra-chunky peanut butter.

Tonight, however, was much more interesting. I finally met up with one of Gotham's more prominent criminals- Scarface- or should I say the Ventriloquist? He(they?) was(were?) in the midst of breaking into the Wayne Memorial art museum- aided by his two favorite thugs, Rocky and Mugs.

They were just exiting the museum, a large rectangle in brown paper in one thug's hands

Wonderful. How was I supposed to stop the thieves without damaging the priceless work of art? Suddenly, a plan coalesced in my mind. I leapt from yet another convenient shadow(I've grown to like them), landing boot-first on the Ventriloquist, and immediately spinning around to drop the thug without the painting. I heard a sickening crack as the Ventriloquist fell, but I had no chance to pause- It was my life on the line too.

"Yow! My leg! Mugs, get that mook!"

"What about the pai-"

"Fuggedabout da painting- waste 'im!"

The crook dropped the painting, but it was too late. He reached for his gun, but I pounced on him and his gun flew away . I got up from the pavement only to finde scarface leaning against the apparently KO'd Ventriloquist and pointing a gun at me (A most thoroughly unnerving image).

"Alright, mook- hands up and against the wall."

I didn't have much choice. I raised my hands and- wait! I dove for the painting, Scarface's tommy-gun fire sprinkling the sidewalk. My hand closed around the painting and I made a split- second throw- a little careless to be sure, but it was me or the painting.

The painting spun through the air, hurtling towards Scarface. He fired at the painting, but to little effect- the spinning art object made a tough target. It connected squarely with the evil doll's neck, separating head from body.

Scarface's head rolled to my feet, as I unsteadily pulled myself up. Not a moment too soon, as the "miracle pill" wore off, and I unsteadily leaned against a wall( I've been breaking each pill up into thirds to increase my stock's life-span). I slowly bent down and picked up the doll's head. Perhaps it was just the adrenaline, but I could have sworn that it was scowling at me.

"Better luck next time- mook." (Why can't I think these lines up on time?)

I suddenly heard the wailing of sirens, and my breath quickened. I've heard that the Gotham police don't take too kindly to vigilantism. I quickly popped a "minute pill" (for those short bursts of action) and began to sprint away. A thought passed through my head and I paused for a second. Reaching into my armor, I pulled out a chess knight, and gently tossed it on the pavement. Tacky, I know- but let's see your flair for the dramatic with the cops at your heels.

I made my way back home( one near-death experience is enough per night-for now) and here I am. I better write down my insight for the night as well. Apparently Scarface/Ventriloquist is more than just a simple DID (Dissociative Identity Disorder) case- he appears to be an entirely separate consciousness- fascinating! That's all for now, Journal- good night.

The Knight (Entirely too tacky. I must find a codename!)


	3. Conversation with a Madman

Day 5:

Today I got my first big break at Arkham. As I opened my case file, I saw the paperwork for one Arnold Wesker- more commonly known as the Ventriloquist. My first big-time patient- and so much the better that I was the one that apprehended him last night! I could hardly wait.

When he was rolled into my office, I grimaced at the condition he was in. He had a bandage around his head, a large black eye, and an arm in a sling, and as I was the one responsible for these injuries, I can't help but feel badly about them. In case you were wondering, I was fortunate- the painting was retrieved intact except for a slightly cracked outer frame- the actual canvas being untouched. Looks like Scarface is a worse shot than I thought- of course, he was aiming through blurry, dazed eyes.

I waited in silence for Wesker to make the first move. I feel it helps if the patient directs the conversation.

"He's not dead, you know." he finally announced.

"Who's not dead?"

"Scarface."

"How could he die? He's just a doll." I replied, knowing full well this wasn't the half of it.

Wesker let out a small chuckle. "That's what you think. But it's not like that. He's real. Sometimes, he calls me on the phone."

"What does he tell you?"

"He makes fun of me, calls me Dummy. He threatens me. Oh lord I shouldn't have said that." He fell silent.

I muttered softly. "What a mook."

Wesker gasped. "No! you shoudn't have said that! He'll kill you!" I

It's worse than I thought. Perhaps I should try a different approach? "Tell Scarface I'm very sorry- I didn't mean to disrespect him. Perhaps I should talk to him directly? To apologize."

"Yes, he'd like that. Pick up the phone, please."

I decided to humor him and lifted up the phone. Imagine my surprise when I heard Scarface's voice.

"Doctor. I have decided to forgive you for your insult. I trust it will not happen again?"

It took me a moment to remember that my patient is an accomplished ventriloquist. Amazing- Scarface's elocution seemed to have shifted from the streets of Brooklyn to The Godfather overnight. I began to wonder just how complete Scarface's consciousness is.

"No it won't, Mr. Scarface."

"Good. Now stay away from my boy Dummy, you hear?"

"I'm sorry, Mr. Scarface. It's part of his treatment."

"Nonsense-Dummy is fine. I get it though Doctor- I can read you like a book. You need to spend a certain amount of time in "therapy" with Dummy- for your job and all. I understand completely. Just don't try to turn Dummy against me, Doctor. Capisce? Wonderful. Have a nice day."

I suddenly noticed the dial tone in my ear. That conversation was the single most unnerving experience I have ever had in Arkham. I understand now why Arkham has only a 16 percent retention rate for staff and a 5 percent recovery rate for patients. But I wasn't too worried. I'd faced Scarface before, and beaten him. Decapitated him, in fact.

Arnold suddenly leaned over to me and whispered "You see? He's _everywhere_. He'll come for me."

"And nobody can stop him?"

"Only one pers-two people. Batman- and Ivanhoe."

"Ivanhoe?" Wow, he's talking about me!

"My mother used to read about him- but I never dreamed he was actually real!"

"A moment, Arnold." I walked out of the room, shut the door behind me, leaned on it heavily, and let out a deep breath. Is my alter ego more helpful than I am? Suddenly, I hit on a brainstorm.

_No, no way! What am I thinking? This plan is harebrained, ill-concieved, and most of all, stupid!_

_But think of the payoff if it works. What do I have to lose, anyway? The man's practically a puppet!_

_Your life! What if he realizes you're -get a codename already!  
_

_Shut up, subconscious._

_Don't say I didn't warn you_...

Internal monologue completed, and visions of gangland executions dancing in my head, I pull my lab coat over my head and walk back into the room.

"Doctor?"

"No, Arnold. It's Ivanhoe." I say, shifting into my more superheroic voice.

"The doctor is bound and gagged in the bathroom. I've been listening in on your conversation, and I just want you to know that if that mook Scarface comes for you, I'll get him. Or- Batman will." could Batman actually be real?

"Oh- thank you, thank you. I knew you could help me, Ivanhoe." Looking back, I can't actually believe this scheme worked- looks like you have to fight madness with madness sometimes.

"It's what I do, Arnold. Goodbye." I walked out of the room, and pulled the labcoat off my head. _I can't believe he actually believed me-but then again, I was telling the truth_. A few minutes later, when Arnold cautiously opened the office door, I stumbled out of the bathroom with a hand to my head.

"Ow... sorry, I must have blacked out- or hit my head on the doorframe. Wierd."

A muttered "Ivanhoe...".

"Well, looks like all the time we have today. See you tomorrow, Albert."

That was a surreal experience- but I think I might have actually helped him, strange as it seems. Looking at Wesker's case file, apparently he had almost six months of continued improval before his breakout and the incident at the museum. I would like to help him, if I can- although my main mission at Arkham is fame and fortune, I'm still a doctor, and that means I help people.

Tonight, however, was fairly uneventful. I continued to drop chess knights at all of my crimebusts- and their numbers are growing by the night. I'm beginnign to get a clearer picture of where the crime "hot-spots" are in Gotham. Anyhow, We'll see what tomorrow brings-I'm interested to know how the whole Ventriloquist situation pans out. I think my action now were a bit rash, but we'll see. Sweet dreams, Journal

-Ivanhoe (No. too obscure, and too many "hoe" puns to be made. The situation is really getting a bit desperate.)


	4. Conversation with a Madwoman or Two

Day 7:

I must say, Journal, that my plans are going better than could have been anticipated.

The Ventriloquist was released from Arkham today- apparently, he made an almost complete turnaround. They even found him a place to live- the Wayne Halfway Home. I'm going to go visit him later, but I can't exactly say when- things have been quite busy around here.

What a morning I had! Doctor Arkham called me into his office to "congratulate you on Wesker's miraculous recovery. In fact, we're going to let you have a crack at some of our more... problematic patients today."

And that, Journal, is how I met Poison Ivy.

Posion brought two items to our meeting: a cloud of pheromones (Another thing that my "miracle drug" protects against. Sometimes I wonder, is there anything it doesn't do?) and an attitude the size of Topeka. Although clad in a prison jumpsuit, she acted just as if she had on that painted on bodysuit instead. She flopped on to the couch, and the histrionics began immediately. I won't repeat the entire conversation- a small segment will illustrate my point.

"...And then, after I kissed him- and this was the "fevery death" kiss, Batman just laughed! I don't get it! Men are all alike- so how'd he survive? It's alright, though- one day he'll change his mind, and he'll shower me with the attention and love I deserve. And then the other day with Harley Quinn..."

And so on. It was as if I was a potted plant- of course, Ivy would have at least said hello if I was. I began to wonder if Ivy's main psychological problem was just being a colossal bitch. I couldn't really tell what with her endless blabbing. Perhaps tomorrow I'll be able to get a word in edgewise.

The next patient on the agenda was Roxy Rocket. You've probably heard of type-T people- the kind of person who'll hitchhike across the country on a hundred bucks and a smile, or solo-jump a parachute on their first time out of the plane. Well, Roxy rocket was T squared, at least. Let me take you into our session.

She walked into the room, and, to my pleasant surprise after Ivy, actually said hello.

"Hello yourself. So, Roxy- may I call you Roxy? How did you decide to start committing crimes?" (Simple, but direct)

"Well, my stunt career was over, and it just didn't have the... spice it used to. I think that life isn't worth living without new and better thrills- speaking of which, it's almost time for my exit."

"What exit? We have almost an hour left!"

My hand crept into my pocket as I pulled out a pill and swallowed it- better be on the safe side. I felt my pulse quicken, and not a moment too soon: with a colossal rumble, an office wall collapsed.

I lay half-pinned under a pile of bricks as Roxy stepped towards the hole her rocket had made in the wall.

"Sorry about that, Doc."

A moment later, when she had stepped out of the building, I pushed the bricks off of me. I ran outside, just in time to hear a tremendous roar. Roxy was just managing to get her rocket started up.

I don't know what provoked me: perhaps a trace of Ivy's pheromones, or a spurt of recklessness, or maybe just plain orneriness, buf I did it anyway. Running after the retreating rocket, I made a flying leap and managed to catch a tailfin just as it was leaving the ground.

Hanging there, a few hundred feet above ground, by a tenuous, slipping grip, was the closest I had come to death in my whole superheroic career- and I wasn't even In costume! You can imagine my relief when a gloved hand reached down to pull me up.

"Well, what do we have here?" Setting the autopilot, she turned around to face me.

"What's a nice guy like you doing on a nasty rocket like this?"

Shouting over the noise of the rocket: "Um... the thrill?" (Well, at least my banter's improving.)

Suddenly, to my absolute and total surprise, she leaned in to give me a... kiss?

"Finally! You have no idea how hard it is to find a nice guy willing to drop from fifteen thousand feet without a parachute! Anyhow, we have plenty of time up here to-" Luckily, an ominous rumble from the rocket cut her off.

"Looks like we have to make an unscheduled landing. Hold on!"

I grabbed around Roxy's waist for dear life as we descended at an obscenely steep angle towards Nash Forest. Mere feet from the ground (or so it seemed at the time) we finally leveled out. She once more turned around, a gleam in her eye.

"So, Doc, how about a little-" THWAP! A tree branch caught Roxy in the back of the head, and it would have gotten me if I hadn't ducked.

_Well, at least now you won't have to sucker punch her_, my subconscious chuckled.

I managed to find the emergency stop controls, and it was only about half an hour before the Arkham orderlies showed up. As Roxy was loaded into the ambulance, she murmured,

"What a rush... Call me, Doc."

I chuckled. Nice girl, but crazy. But we'll see... wow, I really need to get a date- and soon.

If you thought my day was crazy, wait till you hear about my night! But that's another story for another time- like tomorrow morning. G'night.

The Dragonslayer (Does a rocket count as a dragon? It does fly, and it breathes fire... no, too narrow, and too D&D for my tastes. Must... find... codename...! Must stop talking like William Shatner too.)


	5. Pop! Bang! Crackle!

Day 8

Well, before I get into what happened today, I have to record what happened last night.

After my escapades in the skies above Arkham, I was fairly "psyched" about going out on patrol. However, the patrol didn't exactly comply with my wishes, being fairly uneventful. I think perhaps I've scared a large proportion of the criminals out of this part of town- the pickings aren't juicy enough to run the risk of vigilantes. Perhaps I need to expand the area I'm covering- a tall order when you're on foot. Perhaps I should get a horse? Right.

Anyhow, I was walking back to my apartment, when a trenchcoated man stepped in front of me, blocking my path. As he looked up, I inhaled sharply in shock. Covering his entire face was a mask- no eyeholes, no mouthhole, nothing. just a smooth surface marked with a bullseye. Nevertheless, he seemed to be looking right into my eyes. I (somewhat naively) tagged the man as a fellow vigilante,

"Why, hello there. It's nice to see another vi-"

"Blam."

He'd pulled a gun out of his trenchcoat and fired without warning. It was only my pill-enhanced reflexes that kept me from dying instantly- and without my helm I would still probably have suffered a fatal wound. As it was, the bullet ricocheted off my helmet as I dived for cover behind a dumpster. Head ringing form the close call, I looked up- and ducked as another bullet went flying over my head, followed shortly by another "Blam.". The man was certainly no vigilante- but at least he telegraphed his shots. I needed a plan, and I needed one fast. Sliding my hands under the dumpster, I upended it- but he dodged, and fired another bullet, right into my chest. A few inches of steel and kevlar protected me from lethal harm, but it still hurt like hell. I staggered against the wall, and my mysterious assailant advanced. I was dead meat. Suddenly, an ebony missile hurtled out of the night- and right into trenchcoat's gun. It went flying, and with a quickness of thought born of desperation, I lunged towards the masked man and tackled him, He fell to the floor, but it was his turned to get stunned- by an angry vigilante in 60 pounds of armor. I raised a fist, preparing to bring it down in an incredibly forceful blow.

"This is for trying to kill me!" I exclaimed as I raised my fist, and then- darkness.

I awoke some time later propped against an alley wall, The man in the trenchcoat had disappeared. I achingly limped home (you should see the bruise on my chest), and I only managed to write half a journal entry before collapsing, still armored, on my couch.

I had quite the odd dream I was running form the Joker, who was chasing after me in a clown car, while a thousand fire alarms joined the chase. Wait, fire alarms? I groggily lifted my head of the pillow, only to see the glowing digits of my alarm clock shining 10:45 AM back at me. Wow, was I late for my appointments! Doctor Arkham was not going to be happy- and neither was Poison Ivy, if she'd noticed me on he first time around I hurriedly showered, dressed, and rushed off to Arkham.

It turns out I needn't have hurried. I arrived in Arkham to the slightly perturbing sight of a moss-covered parking lot. As I walked into the building, the secretary hailed me.

"You don't have to rush, Doctor. Poison Ivy escaped last night- along with Harley Quinn and the Joker. Then, in all the confusion, Scarecrow and Roxy Rocket slipped away- with a concussion, too. I don't know how she did it. The place's in lockdown, so you don't have any appointments. Why don't you go join the staff in the lounge? Actually, just go home, you look like a zombie." I did just that, sleeping for eight blessed hours at my home. I even had time to watch a movie with dinner. Later in the night, I was just opening up the closet to pull out my armor when a gravelly voice interrupted behind me.

"I wouldn't do that." I spun around, to be confronted with a giant, pointy-eared shadow. Good lord, Batman was real! Of course, I probably could have deduced it form the conversations I'd had with the Arkham inmates, not to mention my Bat-generated salvation last night. But let me tell you, it's very different seeing the Batman in the flesh.

"I'd have thought the incident with Onomatopoeia would have taught you a lesson, but it seems I was wrong," The shadow continued. "Let me spell it out for you. Gotham is **deadly**, and I don't need another dead vigilante in my city. So stay out of things that don't concern you." He turned and walked to the window, but by that time, I had found my voice, and responded to the receding hero:

"And why is it none of my business?" Turning around, the Batman stalked up to me.

"Three reasons. One, you're unprepared for the city- look at what Onomatopoeia almost did to you. Second, you'll find crimefighting's harder without your supply of Miraclo to back you up. And thirdly," and here he picked me up and held me against the wall, " you're not doing this for other people. You're just doing this for your jumped up, fresh out of Ivy Town, conceited self!". He dropped me, and by the time I looked up, he was gone.

I sat there dazed for a moment. Miraclo? what could he mean by Mira-no. I practically dove into my armor, but my entire supply of pills was gone. Well, there went my superhero career. Wait! I still had a small amount of pills left- inside my aspirin pill-bottle. I reached into my jacket pocket, and pulled out a pillbox. I smirked. Batman hadn't gotten everything after all. I opened the bottle and- I had a sudden vision of the bottle being empty, but thankfully, that wasn't the case. I only had three hours of Miraclo left, but it would be the best three hours of superheroics I ever put in.

Cut to two and one-half hours later. I was moving past Robinson Park when I heard...crackling. I moved into the park, hoping to find the source for the mysterious noises.

Ever read Heart of Darkness? That's what it felt like as I moved towards the park's center. The vegetation grew oppressively thick, but I was still too thick to make the connection. It was only when I reached the central lake that i realized the true extent of what was occurring.

Phosphorescent Fungi lit up a truly appalling scene. Batman hung entangled in a mesh of living wood, shacked more securely than the strongest of manacles, Poison Ivy stood over him, horrifically resplendent in unholy botanical glory. I realize my language might seem a bit hyperbolic, but the experience was somehow so... I can't describe it. I climbed up a tree to get a better view.

"At last, Batman. Finally, you stand, powerless before the might of Gaea's avatar. At last, the end of Man's rule-destructive, corrupting, blighting Man's rule- is upon us! You should be honored, Batman. You are the first sacrifice of Gaea's reign!" Yeah, she was crazy. She hefted a- was that a spear? and prepared to drive it straight into Batman's heart- except that she was aiming at the wrong side. It was just too much. I hurtled from my perch on the tree just in time. Poison Ivy was thrown into a bed of moss, but I wasn't as lucky. I must have sprained my ankle in the jump. I staggered up to Batman, and set about trying to pull Batman from his wooden cage.

"Antiplant gas. Left pouch." Batman ground out. I shoved my hand into the pouch, and I came out with what looked like a smoke grenade. I popped the pin and dropped it. Orange gas flooded the scene, and the greenery just- i supposed wilted. Batman stumbled forward, just as Ivy rose up from the ground.

"You will pay for your desecration!" she spat as a vine swung towards me, batting me into the lake. I surged out of the water, ready to do battle- and promptly collapsed as my Miraclo rush wore off. I struggled frantically to get in reach of the shoreline, but my armor was just too heavy, and the lake bed too clingy. I sunk under the lake water, still desperately trying to escape my watery confines. But is struggled in vain- my lungs burnt, and my head spun, as I sunk into inky dark blackness.

(Author's note: Oooh, cliffhanger! Anyway, thanks to all those who reviewed. I really appreciate it. For those of you who haven't dropped a line yet, this is my first serious stab at fiction, so icould appreciate any comments, criticism, advice, or praise(sic) you would like to send my way. Thank you!)


	6. Gadgets and Goodbyes

I gasped and sputtered as I drew a breath of sweet, sweet air- never mind the throbbing pain in my head. I sat up- and bashed my head into a low hanging...girder? It was too dark to see anything, I stretched my hands out, trying to feel my way around, I didn't find the light switch, but I did manage to grope my way into Batman.

"You should lay back down. You're suffering from a concussion and near-drowning. I had to cut your armor off to revive you."

"It's not as if it matters," I replied, not a little bitterly. "It's not as if I have any chance of being a superhero without my pills, anyway. You called it-"

"Miraclo-developed in 1939 by Rex Tyler, alias Hourman. But he destroyed his work. How did you obtain the formula?"

"Why should I tell you?"

"Picture a city of super-strong criminals."

"I have a biochemist friend in Ivy Town."

"Hm. I any case, you have a concussion."

"Yeah. Is Ivy always that crazy?"

"No. She was under some kind of influence- considering that her body can process almost any toxin, a disturbing thought." Batman turned around, switching on a computer and sitting down in front of it.

"According to this blood sample from Ivy, she didn't have any drugs in her bloodstream. Puzzling." Without turning his head, Batman remarked: "There's pain medication in the cabinets to your left."

"Thanks." I gratefully walked over to the cabinet- when suddenly, an arm was at my face, pressing a cloth to my mouth. I gasped- and fell unconscious once again.

At around three in the morning, I awoke once more, and decided to write down the past two night;s adventures. My career as a superhero is over; that much seems certain. No need to get a codename anymore. Good night.

Day 9:

Today passed uneventfully, if a bit listlessly. Since Arkham was still in lockdown, I spent the day in the library reading about psychopathology. I glumly reasoned that even without my super-heroics, I still had a chance at a good "true-confessions" type of book.

Anyway, without a 'night job,' I can finally get some sleep. Wait, what's that noise?

Wow. Just wow. A few hours ago, I opened a window, and was greeted by a note, stuck to the window-frame by a still-quivering batarang.

Check your closet, the note declared. I turned around and practically tore the closet door off its hinges.

I didn't find my suit, however. I found my suit on steroids, Painted matte black, in stark contrast to the white chess knight on the chest, It also included certain enhancements, as I was to later find out. As I fitted the last few pieces, a radio in my helmet crackled to life.

"Meet me at the docks. Pier 16. I could use some extra manpower. Also, Check your wrist compartment."

Opening the wrist compartment, I saw a large red button.

"That button applies a Miraclo patch. You have around 6 hours worth. See you at the docks." The radio fell silent. Grinning, I leapt out into the night.

F I N I S

That ends "Between the Devil and the Deep Blue Sea." I hope you enjoyed it. Look for my next story. I apologize for my sometimes laconic prose, but I prefer laconicism to graphorrhea. As always, critiques are appreciated.

Quill9


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